The festival had ended, but its noise refused to die.Even as Harry walked down the service tunnel with the rest of Class 1-A, he could still hear the crowd cheering somewhere above, muffled by concrete and distance. It felt strange—like the sound belonged to a different world.
Everyone looked wrecked. Kaminari joked weakly about getting shocked again, Jiro rolled her eyes, Ochako tried to get Midoriya to stop fussing over his broken fingers. Harry stayed quiet, trailing a few steps behind, half-listening.
The medal hanging around his neck knocked softly against his chest. Bronze. Not bad for someone who'd started out with a stack of paper charms and luck.Still, it didn't feel much like a win.
Iida's phone rang ahead of him.The tall boy slowed, excused himself from the group, and stepped aside to answer.His voice, normally crisp and commanding, was tight and low this time.
"...yes, Mother. I understand. They said what?"A pause. "I'll come immediately."
Harry glanced over. The others were already laughing their way around the bend in the tunnel, oblivious. Only Iida stayed behind, rigid as a statue, phone hanging by his side.
Harry hesitated, then walked over. "You okay?"
Iida startled slightly. "Potter—ah. My apologies. I didn't see you."He adjusted his glasses—reflex, not composure—and swallowed hard."My brother, Ingenium… was attacked. A villain calling himself Stain."
Harry frowned. "Attacked? Is he—"
"Alive," Iida said quickly, "but injured. Badly."
The hallway lights flickered once, humming faintly above them. Neither spoke for a few seconds.
Finally Harry asked, "You going to him?"
"Yes. I need to leave tonight."
"Want company?"
Iida shook his head. "No. My family will be there. But—thank you."
Harry gave a small nod. "Tell him there's a magician here rooting for him."
That earned the faintest curve of a smile, gone as quickly as it came. "I'll do that."Iida turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor until the door closed behind him.
Outside, the stadium lights were already dimming.Cleanup drones buzzed across the field, sweeping away broken bits of Todoroki's ice and Bakugo's scorch marks. The air smelled faintly of dust and metal.
Harry stepped out through the side gate into the cooling dusk.The sky was streaked orange and purple, the city lights flickering awake in the distance.
He sat on a low step near the fence, pulling the medal off his neck and turning it in his hand. The bronze caught the last bits of sunlight before fading dull.
If a pro like Ingenium could get cut down, what did that mean for the rest of them?For someone like him half-trained, still learning to use magic like an extra limb?
He shoved the medal into his satchel and sighed.
The train ride back to the orphanage was quiet.He sat by the window, watching the city smear past—neon signs, billboards, bridges flashing by like quick memories. The hum of the wheels on the track filled the silence in his head.
When he reached home, the building was already dark. Most of the kids were asleep, the night matron reading by the desk lamp near the entrance. She looked up long enough to smile and say, "Congratulations, Harry," before returning to her book.
Harry smiled back faintly, kicked off his shoes, and slipped upstairs.
His room was small but tidy—half-filled with open notebooks, rune sketches pinned to the wall, and a faint smell of burnt parchment. He set his satchel down and pulled open his research log.
For a long minute, he just stared at the blank page. Then he began to write.
Ingenium attacked — villain "Stain."Pro heroes can fall. Need stronger counters.Existing spell set too narrow. Too defensive.Explore: Transfiguration, Conjuration.
He underlined both words.Transfiguration—one of the most powerful branches of magic in Harry Potter's world. The ability to reshape matter, control the ground itself—turn stone into shields, rubble into spikes. It was a weapon and a defense all at once.But also… it was advanced. Complex. It would take months.
Conjuration, though—that had possibilities right now.Summoning constructs, maybe familiars, magical entities to fight in his stead.It would give him reach, range—an army when he needed one.
He tapped the pen against the page. "Start small," he muttered. "Keep it controllable."
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room where a few leftover spell cards lay scattered on the desk. They'd carried him through the festival. But now, they felt like pebbles against a storm.
He wrote a final line:
Goal: Learn to fight without being on the front line.A magician commands the field, not just survives it.
Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.The quiet creaks of the building and the distant whistle of the night train filled the air.
He thought of Iida again, leaving the stadium with that look on his face—hurt, determined, burning.
Maybe that was what being a hero really looked like.Not standing on a podium, but walking into something uncertain because you couldn't do anything else.
Harry closed the notebook, placed it on his nightstand, and glanced once more at the city lights outside his window.
Tomorrow, he'd start fresh.He'd figure out what it took to call something out of thin air—and make it fight for him.